36 Hours
by LPSATX
Summary: Lockwood & Co. investigate, argue, eat breakfast, mock each other, celebrate and go shopping - not necessarily in that order. A day and a half in the lives of our favorite psychic agents. Lucy, George and Anthony belong to Jonathan Stroud; a few OCs, ghostly and otherwise.
1. Chapter 1

Sometimes it's not the heroic stories or the running battles with multiple Visitors that you remember. It's not the bravado during an epic failure or a rare instance of dazzling teamwork or even the lucky breaks. It's the little things, the quiet moments together on a job, the late-morning breakfasts at home-and the jokes. Especially the jokes.

"A weak Type Two. Maybe even a Type One. Fairly substantial Apparition but details difficult to make out. No awareness of people, no threatening movements. Just a presence down at the end of the garden and a bit of scattered ghost fog," Lockwood checked the papers in his hand again and continued in a cheerful, even voice.

"Was observed for the first time last night at 9:10 by a six-year-old houseguest. Manifestation lasted for eleven minutes. No traumatic events associated with the property. Quite a lot of good information from the young woman who owns the home, and we still have several hours of daylight for George to get to the library to do a quick spot of research. And all three of us can go, because we don't have anything else on the books this evening. Or this weekend, actually. So yes, I accepted a job for tonight."

Setting the file on his lap, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, transferring his attention from the notes to me and George. Flashing his radiant grin, glowing with enthusiasm, he was a leader you would follow anywhere, inspiring confidence and quelling all fears and doubts.

"Lockwood, you're an idiot," I started. "Assuming that information is accurate..."

"Which it is," Lockwood interrupted.

"Even assuming that information is accurate," I continued, "We're still not prepared for this job. This Visitor has only been seen once and a six-year-old can hardly be expected to give a reliable description. I completely agree with George in this case," I finished firmly.

"I haven't said anything yet! How can you agree with me?" complained George.

"Because I know what you're going to say-that this is a bad idea and that we ought to wait until we can do some proper research so that we know what we're up against," I retorted, certain that George would run true to form. He was often prickly in asserting his value to the team, but his thoroughness had frequently saved our hides.

"Well, in fact, I think Lockwood might be in the right here," offered George slowly. "It is just now half past two and the library's open 'til five, there are three of us available tonight, the Apparition is outside-so there's a greatly reduced chance of burning down the client's home with a magnesium flare-and it is a job."

"And the address is right at the border of Regent's Park, large two-floor flat with a garden. Bet she settles up tonight," added Lockwood.

I was outmatched and would soon be outvoted. Lockwood sensed that I was wavering and turned up the wattage on his smile. While he could have ruled by edict- it was his firm, after all, and he'd made that kind of quick decision several times before, most notably in accepting the much more dangerous job at Combe Carey-he preferred charm.

I sighed. "I'll pack the bags," I offered, "but I'm not making the sandwiches."

We arrived at the house before seven o'clock, about half an hour in advance of sunset. It had been an unusually hot day for September and we had walked from Portland Row-the job was so close we hardly wanted to waste the bus fare.

Helena Hickham-Holt had met us at the shiny red front door, opening it before we even had a chance to use the polished brass knocker. She seemed only a few years past the age where she might have spotted the spirit herself, but she was as glossy as the brightly painted door. Smooth hair, light but deft makeup, and a lovely large strand of pearls about her neck. Her smile was a match for Lockwood's.

With my hair plastered to my neck and my shirt stuck to my sweaty back, I felt as though we should have used the tradesman's entrance. Unexpectedly, young Ms. Hickham-Holt seemed genuinely glad to see us; most clients seem to find agents-especially our team, which lacked even a nominally adult supervisor-only a bit less unsettling than Visitors themselves.

Her home was as elegant and as welcoming as she was, with gleaming wooden floors and jewel-toned Persian rugs here and there. Soft watercolor portraits and landscapes and pen-and-ink sketches of London's landmarks lined the walls; the air was cool and dry and refreshing after our walk. She took us back to the recently remodeled kitchen, which overlooked the garden and was the cleanest room I had ever been in. We set our bags down and, after some pleasantries, we got to work.

While George and I went out through the double glass doors to size up the site of the manifestation, Lockwood did his work in the kitchen. As the doors shut behind us they were chatting about book illustrators and Helena was cheerfully admitting to being the daughter of "that Angelica Holt."

"Who the hell is Angelica Holt?" I asked George with a scowl.

"How should I know? But that's Lockwood for you. Unplumbed depths, has our kid." George ruined the effect by first snorting, then choking, then blowing his nose loudly on a dirty handkerchief.

"George, I'm fine with ichor, but what's on your snot rag is unnatural. Get a new one, or at least do the wash!" And so we bickered our way around the long narrow plot of grass, edged with beds of pale purple phlox and and clumps of bright lavender asters. A Japanese maple stood near the kitchen door; beside the garden gate was a sizable hydrangea in spectacular, strawberry-pink bloom. Everything looked manicured and well-maintained, glowing softly in the last of the late summer light.

All we learned from our turn about the garden was that it was still quite warm outside; a tall brick wall topped with iron spikes surrounded the yard, so there wasn't even a hint of breeze. Added to what George had learned at the library-nothing-we didn't have much to go on.

There had never been a murder or an accident, the building was untouched during the war, and the previous owner had sold the flat to Ms. Hickham-Holt two years before. Because she had been listed on decades of property records as Mrs. Henry Brown, it wasn't even possible to determine what had happened to her after the sale. The one bright spot was the death of Henry Brown himself, but that had happened close on 20 years ago, and no trouble with Visitors had been reported until now.

Right at eight o'clock we re-entered the now-dim kitchen, to find that Lockwood had put the kettle on, lit several candles and was arranging dark Choco Leibniz on a square cut glass plate. He was humming happily and greeted us without looking up. "I know you'll both agree with my decision to refuse Helena's offer of the white chocolate biscuits. Something not right there, I think."

"Good work, Lockwood," said George. "Glad to see you're taking care of the important details while we're risking our lives out there."

Lockwood ignored this completely, as it deserved. Instead he flipped through a small notebook and began to read: "I've pruned, but the garden is still almost exactly as Bitsy Brown left it. Bitsy was grandmother's best friend. She and her husband Henry bought this flat almost sixty years ago. Long happy marriage. Henry died when I was just starting school and Bitsy lived here alone until her health declined. After I bought the place I'd visit her care home but then she became too ill to recognize me. She died last week." Lockwood closed the notebook and awaited our reaction with a self-satisfied grin.

"Well that's it then-she has unfinished business," I exclaimed. "Perhaps she left something of value buried in the garden?"

"More likely she snuffed her husband and the murder weapon's hidden under the brick path," put in George.

"Or she's seeking revenge against the woman who bought her beloved home and then lorded it over her while watching her waste away under some strangers' care," offered Lockwood.

All plausible. Now all we had to do was wait until 9:10 to see which of us was right.


	2. Chapter 2

The three of us headed out into the muggy evening a quarter-hour before the expected manifestation. We made our rounds, but temperatures hadn't dropped anywhere and Lockwood saw nothing except a tiny death glow at the base of the maple, which he confidently labeled a mouse. Or a sparrow. Or perhaps a slow worm.

I heard nothing, even when I knelt down and trailed my hand along the bricks of the path. I walked down to the garden gate and touched the wall next to it-no use touching the gate, it was made of iron. All quiet.

Leaning against the wall, I could feel the captured heat in the sun-baked bricks through my black cotton tee-shirt. The warmth made me sleepy; although we had a few days without a job, September had been very busy so far-the whole summer had been, really, after Kensal Green.

My mind wandered back over the past few months. I began to nod off. And then the kettle whistled.

"Lockwood, you've left the kettle on!"

"I'm sure I haven't, and I can't hear it. That'll be our Visitor, Lucy," replied Lockwood.

The whistling cut off abruptly, and now there was a voice, calling. It was so faint that I wasn't sure whether I heard it or felt it-Come. Come on. Come here. Faint, but eager and excited.

"She's calling to me, to come to her," I relayed to them. "But it's not threatening."

"Oh yes, George, now take good notes: this must be a Type Four Ghost-the friendly kind. Next she'll lead us by the hand and show us Christmases past," opined Lockwood, his voice rich with sarcasm.

It was a few minutes early-9:07-but suddenly we all saw tendrils of ghost fog materializing around the planting beds.

We formed a circle, back to back, with our rapiers drawn. Our other hands rested on salt tins and iron filings at our waists. A strong, cold breeze rustled through the garden. The temperature dropped, and the Visitor was there.

George and I immediately turned to face the apparition, but the aura was still too faint for me to get a good look. I could hear, though-scrabbling, scratching noises; a jingling sound.

"What do you see, Lockwood?" called George.

"A woman, an older woman, a Shade or a Specter," answered Lockwood. "Cardigan sweater, tartan skirt, sensible shoes. She's holding something..."

The figure flickered and was all at once a few feet further away, but much clearer. I moved cautiously to the left and kept a close watch on the Visitor, in case it disappeared or attacked. If it vanished we'd need to mark the exact spot to locate the source. As to what danger the ghost posed, we still hadn't determined whether the manifestation was a Type One or Type Two, whether she was aware of us or not.

Ghost fog, or some strange trick of other light, had begun to pool at her feet, much brighter than the rest of the apparition's outline. Then she turned toward me, and met my gaze dead on.

"Specter," I called out, "She's a Specter!"

Her arm drew back and then shot forward, reaching for me...no, not reaching, throwing. At that instant her voice became clear: "Go on, go get it. Bring it back to mummy!"

The bright patch at her feet wasn't trailing ghost fog-it was a ghost dog.

I opened my mouth to speak but Lockwood beat me to it.

"Oh I say, it's a Corgi."

And then all three of us just stood there in the moonlit garden and watched an old woman play fetch with her dog. We acted as though we'd never heard of the Fittes Manual, let alone read it. Not one of us so much as reached for a flare or even a salt bomb.

Was it because we had so little resembling a normal family life that Bitsy Brown and her dog were like those documentary films about the Aztecs or the Maasai that we used to be shown in school-a glimpse of an alien world in which even the most mundane things, like clothing or cooking pots, were oddly fascinating in how much they differed from our own experience? Bitsy Brown wouldn't have been any more riveting if she had been wearing a feathered cloak or tribal body paint.

Or perhaps it was just the novelty of an entirely new phenomenon, one that we had never seen or even read about in True Hauntings. The Specter had come back not to avenge a murder or confess a crime or destroy an enemy; she had come back to throw a rubber ball around her garden with her Corgi.

Whatever the reason, or reasons, we didn't attempt to locate or neutralize the source. We didn't move, and we didn't talk much. We just watched them play.

Finally I pulled my thoughts together. "Lockwood, I don't think we have very long-just a few more minutes, at most. They're getting tired."

He didn't ask me how I knew; my Talent sometimes afforded me a glimpse of what Visitors were thinking-or feeling-or whatever it was they did. Often very useful, in that it allowed me to understand, at some level, what they would do next.

In this case, though, it didn't take an extraordinary sensitivity to see that the Corgi was slowing down. Finally the dog returned the ball one last time and sprawled out on his mistress's feet. Even as a ghost, every line of his long stubby body conveyed exhausted happiness.

"Leave them alone. Let them finish. Then we'll find the source. That's all the client asked, actually," said Lockwood quietly. He never took his eyes off the pair in front of us.

At 9:14 the dog and his mistress disappeared into the massed blooms of the overgrown hydrangea.

The three of us crossed the garden yard in a few quick steps. In lieu of our usual argument about whose turn it was to search out the source, I actually volunteered to do the seeking.

Handing my bulky belt to George, I got down on my stomach and crawled forward, parting the lowest branches with one arm while holding my torch in the other. Almost immediately I noticed a flat smooth stone, just a handspan square, embedded near the plant's thick stem.

Although partially obscured by leaves and debris, it was ice-cold to the touch. I cleared it off and read the inscription by the light of my torch:

Rex

Faithful Friend

Forever


	3. Chapter 3

Lockwood sagged blearily into a chair.

Or at least something bearing a passing resemblance to Anthony Lockwood did. But the puffy eyes - the disheveled dressing gown - the lank hair - how could this be our Lockwood, composed and elegant even when fighting Visitors? This morning his dark eyes did not shine; his brow was uncharacteristically bare.

Lockwood's debonair persona was practically our trademark and George and I shielded ourselves behind it almost instinctively. Talent, brains and bravery notwithstanding, it was Lockwood's ineffable charm that carried us through doors like Ms. Hickham-Holt's.

Lockwood's condition was more than puzzling, given his usual state of self-possession and the relatively easy night we'd had. George and I exchanged glances; I frowned quizzically. Lockwood started to speak, but his words deteriorated into a yawn.

Both George and I had woken earlier than usual, as a consequence of getting to bed well before midnight. The unseasonable weather was holding; we were promised a bright and sunny Saturday. When I came downstairs a sloppily but nevertheless fully dressed George informed me that he was making omelets, so I had agreed to head over to Afir's to pick up the donuts.

George was still sautéing mushrooms when I returned, and while I cleared off the table and swept the crumbs from the Thinking Cloth I told him about the two little girls I had just seen walking a Corgi down Portland Row. George moved on to chopping ham and I knew we were both mulling over last night's job, each in our own fashion - that is, George was probably contemplating the ramifications of the Corgi's presence on several leading theories explaining co-incident hauntings; I was thinking that we ought to get a dog.

By the time Lockwood stumbled downstairs, George and I were arguing mindlessly but heatedly about whether puppies or kittens were cuter.

We had broken it off in surprise when Lockwood slouched in, looking thoroughly knackered. Now he was seated, holding his face in his hands, making a vague scrubbing motion. "I couldn't sleep. Ridiculous weather. Nothing proper to wear."

"Lockwood, you do know you're still in your nightclothes?" I asked pointedly, still slightly shocked by his appearance but more than ready to worry him a little, like a spaniel who's finally caught a long-pursued squirrel. "If getting properly dressed was your aim, you haven't succeeded, at all."

"Yes, what are you moaning on about?" asked George, in a derisive tone, taking a bite of a jam-filled donut and dusting his other hand on his sweatpants.

"I have - I have hot pajamas," Lockwood mumbled.

George made a vastly entertaining noise somewhere between retching and hooting, which resulted in a formidable spray of donut bits lodging on the front of his shirt, where they must have felt right at home among other debris and detritus.

Now, I never giggle. It's a very undignified noise. Under these circumstances, however, I felt giggling was acceptable, perhaps even required. I giggled. Then I giggled again, with more intensity and noticeably less control.

"Sorry, what did you just say?" I managed to blurt out.

"Hot pajamas. My pajamas are hot. They make me hot," he flailed.

Lockwood was blushing.

The more he tried to explain, the harder George and I laughed.

"This weather is beastly and quite inappropriate and it seems I've grown so that my summer pajamas don't fit at all comfortably and so last night I attempted to wear the new autumn set but they're..." He tried to talk over us, trailed off. Lockwood's voice was unsure in a way I had not heard from him before

"I couldn't sleep," he repeated. "Barely slept a wink all night," he finished a little more firmly, attempting to regain a bit of his typical demeanor but somehow sounding instead like a proper matron.

George, too, seemed suddenly serious, wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand and pushing his glasses up on his nose with the other. "Why yes sir," he said, "please do tell us more about these hot pajamas that kept you up all night. Lucy, make a sketch. Satin? Silk? Leopard-print spandex?"

George's intent gaze and the scrunchy wriggling motions of his hands that accompanied his questions set me off again. I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe, laughing so hard I had to hug myself to keep my sides from aching, laughing so hard I couldn't laugh any more. I laid my head down on the table and massaged my aching jaw.

And when I looked up Lockwood was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

I wiped a tear from my eye and stood up. "Now I'm exhausted. I think I need a strong cuppa. One for you?," I offered as I opened the tea canister - still wearing a silly grin.

George was brushing his shirt off over the sink, a faint smile on his face as well. He turned to the fridge and removed a carton of eggs, getting back to work on the omelets. "Yes, thank you," he answered, a bit absently.

I took three mugs and three plates out of the cabinet and set them on the table.

George glanced over at me. "You can put that extra crockery back. I'm sure we won't be seeing Lockwood again this morning," he observed.

I turned to him with a worried frown. "What - you don't think there's anything truly wrong with him, do you? I mean he looked all-in...but he's usually the first of us to recover, isn't he?" I asked.

"From a wallop across the head, yes. But you know he can't stand being laughed at," remarked George.

"Well, who does enjoy being laughed at?" I replied, stubbornly taking three sets of cutlery from the drawer and laying them on the Thinking Cloth.

"I didn't say he doesn't like it - I said he can't stand it," responded George. "That's why he and Quill Kipps are always at each other's throats. I was there, years ago, at the tournament. Kipps patted him on the head and made a remark about little boys and fancy dress. Lockwood was in a black suit, you know, even then, and he was furious." George paused.

"Calm as you please when he had to face him, though. Lockwood sometimes claims it was an accident but I'm sure he meant to draw blood." George was breaking eggs one-handed into a mixing bowl, tossing the shells in the bin.

"And then there was the clerk at Marks and Sparks last summer who thought himself clever and kept asking if Lockwood hadn't rather be shopping somewhere a little more posh and isn't Harrod's open at this hour, old chap? I cracked a smile and Lockwood barely spoke to me for a week," George finished.

"And the clerk? Did Lockwood let him have it?" I asked.

"Oh no. He was scrupulously polite to the clerk. But he also followed him home after store closing and Greek-fired his scooter at midnight. Told everyone he'd seen a Raw Bones in the car park."

I giggled. Seemed to be a new habit I'd acquired.

George had set the frying pan on the hob and was standing in front of the cooker. "I have to admit I'm a little surprised you joined me in taking the mickey out of Lockwood," he commented. "Wasn't sure you were willing to run the risk."

"Oh don't be daft," I snorted. "Are you worried he'd use a magnesium flare on me? You know I'm always up for a slanging match with Lockwood."

"Of course you're willing to fight with him...because he always wins," maintained George stolidly. "But you never laugh at him."

"That would be brilliant: laughing at my employer," I started.

George cut me off. "Right, I'm sure that's the reason. It has nothing to do with the fact that the mere thought of Lockwood not speaking to you for a week gives you the screaming abdabs."

I found myself very busy with the tea. I poured out the boiling water, set out the milk and sugar on the table, wiped up a few drips. Added saucers under the steaming mugs.

When I finally looked up, George was watching me, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. He looked down, removing his spectacles and rubbing them on his shirt.

"At any rate, well done, Lucy," he said suddenly. Clearing his throat, he added, "They do say that humour is quite one of the most important aspects in building and maintaining a strong and lasting relationship."

I gaped at him.

"The three of us spend so much time together, and in such difficult circumstances, it's essential that we work well as a team, correct? Our lives depend on it. So well done," George concluded.

"Yes, that's it," I managed. "Strengthening the team, right-o."

George had got the omelet onto a plate, which he set on the table. I contributed a bowl of blackberries from the fridge and we sat down to eat, George with the cricket match results from the morning's paper and me with my latest paperback murder mystery in hand.

We ate in companionable silence. Several times I thought I heard a noise on the stairs, but Lockwood never did join us.


	5. Chapter 5

Even a relatively uneventful job requires clean-up and restocking the next day. So while we hadn't fought a Visitor - really hadn't even confronted our Specter - there were a number of highly important tasks to be completed to ensure our competency in the field and our readiness to take on our next engagement (whatever and whenever that might be, as the telephone had remained silent all morning).

Emptying our thermos, for example; refilling the biscuit tin; topping off the supply of mints and gum. And of course I had to take on the food-related chores or George would nick the supplies. Nothing like being hit by malaise and miasma as the clock struck twelve and finding you're clean out of mints.

Both of us scraped and polished our boots, mine taking a tad longer because of the gunky mass on the right toe, all that remained of the bloody bits and bobs Thursday's Wraith had flung at me immediately before I had decapitated it. Steel-toed boots: a girl's best friend.

George oiled the three sets of smaller chains and checked the levels of iron filings in all of the tins on our belts. He took inventory of our other basic stores as well, and started a list of necessary purchases on the Thinking Cloth: bulk salt, Sunrise matches, Moore's Ectoplasm ERase for Leather Burns, London Bath Buns...

"You can't be hungry already, George, we just ate!" I exclaimed, looking over his shoulder. "Anyway, the crumbs still stuck on your shirt should do for tea time."

"Says the girl with the blob of egg in her collar," retorted George with a significant glance at the cowl neck of my navy tee-shirt.

All right then, we were both on the grubby side of presentable-or the tidy side of completely manky. And I was feeling a bit broad in the beam after our big breakfast.

"How about a round of rapier practice?" I asked George. "We can take stock downstairs, too, and then after we clean up we can all head out on a shopping spree."

George raised his eyebrows and took a breath; I readied for a sarcastic retort but he surprised me.

"That's an...excellent idea, Lucy. We could use the exercise and I know we're almost out of ginger ale and hot pepper crisps," he offered. "But don't...", and his voice trailed off.

"Don't what?" I responded.

"Don't lay into me too hard," he finished quickly. "I'm a little rusty these days," he added, heading down the spiral stairs.

We greeted Esmeralda and Joe - who thankfully did not respond - and spent a solid 45 minutes practising knots and wards, thrusts and blocks, half-turns...even catching a thrown blade by its hilt. Success with that manoeuvre would definitely require more work.

Although I half-expected Lockwood to appear and interrupt our sparring to correct George's grip or my stance, the two of us finished up, tidied the supply room and took a quick inventory without any sign of him. I flicked off the lights, negotiated the twisting stairwell and emerged through the odd little door into the kitchen.

"We could both stand a shower now, I'd wager," offered George as he took an apple from the bowl on the counter and headed upstairs.

"You could have used one an hour ago-or yesterday!" I called up after him as I sat down at table to compile the two shopping lists.

There, in a large blank patch of the Thinking Cloth, were two words inside an angry red circle: GONE OUT.

"George..." I started.

"Saw it," he yelled back. "I'll be downstairs in half an hour. We've a lot of shopping to do so don't keep me waiting."

It was getting on to five o'clock when we finished putting away the groceries. I'd prevented George from buying a carton of crisps in every new autumn flavor; we had packets of lamb with rosemary and Peking duck but I'd refused the truffled foie gras. If I ever tried truffles-or foie gras-it was going to be with a silver fork from a china plate, not with my greasy fingers from a chip bag.

Now our kitchen and storeroom were restocked; all of our tools and supplies were cleaned, topped off and stowed; George had even taken a call from a prospective client who wanted to come round Monday to discuss a job out at a country house. Referred by Helena Hickham-Holt, of course. Heard we'd done "just a marvlous job with dear old Bitsy and Rex."

We had a few hours yet before sunset...and no Lockwood. I had checked the Thinking Cloth as soon as we got home; no word. When I ran up to third floor to shed my jumper atop my dirty clothes heap, I had knocked at Lockwood's door on the way back. No answer.

We'd avoided any mention of him all afternoon - or rather I'd avoided it. George was probably just being George: crisps were more interesting than our housemate. Given that he'd lived with Lockwood for years and seemed never to have inquired about his mysterious childhood or the forbidden door on the second floor - the door that we now knew led to Lockwood's sister's room, the very room where she had been killed by a Visitor - I was inclined to think his interest in living people and their affairs was greatly overshadowed by his interest in the dead ones he researched in the library.

From where I stood, even having a row with a mate seemed to be an analytical exercise for George.

It was up to me, then. "George, what do you think we should do?"

"Lamb and rosemary, definitely," he answered promptly. "Quite honestly I think Peking duck's a bit dodgy..."

"Not about the crisps, you wally! About Lockwood. We have to find him."

"Find him? Whatever for? He's 'Gone Out.' He'll be back later and he'll give us the cold shoulder for two or three days - or three or four - and then everything will be back to normal again, just as usual," George said, all in one breath.

"How is it normal not to talk to your friends for days and then simply pretend nothing has happened?" I asked.

"It's what he always does," responded George. "Just because he hasn't done it since you've been here doesn't mean it isn't normal...for him."

"Alright then, we need a new normal," I argued. "George, we have more shopping to do. We're going to go buy some pajamas."


	6. Chapter 6

At quarter past the hour we were standing in front of 35 Portland Row arguing. After convincing George that the odds of one of us saying anything, with actual words, to mend the breech were astronomically high, but that we needed to be a functioning team and quickly if we were to get the country house job on Monday, he reluctantly agreed that we ought to do something.

George also said he bloody well wasn't going to apologize, which was fine by me as long as he served up a decent dinner and we made a bit of a night of it. The new pair of summer pajamas was my idea but George had agreed to share the cost.

A gesture from each of us - well, from me and George; we could only hope Lockwood would reciprocate. We had a plan that included the lamb chops thawing in the kitchen; what we were sadly lacking was not just the pajamas but any clue as to where we could purchase them. We had nicked the hot pajama top from the hamper in Lockwood's bathroom (I'd made George do that), but there were no identifying labels or marks, or even a size.

"Why not Aickmere's? That's where mum buys my pajamas," said George for the third time.

"George, having seen your pajamas - in fact, having seen entirely too much of your pajamas - and having seen...well having seen Lockwood, I think he..." I paused, unsure exactly what I was trying to say. "Well, I'm relatively certain that rocket ships and sweat pants are not what we're looking for," I finished lamely.

"Right," said George, "Harrod's and not High Street. We might actually try Harrod's, you know. Except that I'm almost certain Lockwood buys his duds around here somewhere. Whenever he's gone out to pick up a new coat or a batch of shirts he walks, and he returns rather quickly."

George stared at me, his critical gaze taking me in head to toe, before adding "Unfortunate that you don't seem to know much more about clothes shopping than I do."

We'd been getting along much better but all that camaraderie was in danger of evaporating like a Shade under a spray of salt. We were too short of time for me to pick a fight - having just seen George practising, I was confident in my skills but exercised my restraint instead, albeit with knuckles a little white around my rapier hilt.

I thought aloud. "We need to ask one of the more established merchants around here. A shop that's a bit posh. The Patels - the silversmiths - don't they have a son about Lockwood's age? Sandy. He's a little broader in the shoulder than Lockwood but he looks about the same size. And their shop is rather smart. They would know where to go."

"The Patels have a son?" queried George. He thought for a moment. "Sorry, I just don't recall."

"Of course you do - he handles the weighing. You remember: tall, keeps his hair cut very short, always smiling? With the dark brown eyes?" I smiled a bit just thinking of him, the way you often yawn when the person you're speaking with does. Or something like that.

"I suppose you've done enough remembering for the both of us," said George, with a slight frown. "Let's go, then."

A few minutes later we were darkening the door of a handsome shop; the spotless glass of one prominent bay window proclaimed in gold script 'John Castles & Son, Fifth Generation Silversmiths in London, Jewelry - Antiques.' Painted on the door in bolder black was 'WARDS - CHARMS - SILVER DUST - OPEN 'TIL DUSK, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK.'

A muffled chime announced our arrival and I greeted the well-turned out woman behind the glass-topped display case. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Patel. I'm Lucy Carlyle with Lockwood & Co. I'm wondering if Sandy is in today?" I asked politely.

"I'm sorry, my son - Sandeep - is not available. And might I ask what business you have with him? He's not mixed up in any trouble, I'm sure," she answered, not at all in the same friendly tone I had employed, and eyeing my rapier.

"Oh, it's not business, ma'am, it's purely personal," I replied, reassuringly.

Her expression underwent an instant transformation, from concerned and slightly anxious to almost carnivorous. The nose that had seemed classically sculpted a moment before now resembled the beak of a raptor. I had never felt more like a mouse.

At which point George stepped in: "What Lucy here is trying to ask is where does your son buy his pajamas. She'd like to buy some..."

Mrs. Patel cut him off, emerging from behind a jewelry case and sweeping us out the door like a hawk swooping in on its prey. "This young...person is not going to purchase such an item for my son! Nor is she going to be allowed to speak with him! Out you go, missy, and you too, young man, right now. And stay away from Sandeep!"

I was blushing furiously and unable to muster any defense; suspiciously, George almost seemed to be laughing but then produced a handkerchief (clean, I noted) and proceeded to cough into it several times, so perhaps I mistook him.

We paused in the mouth of the alley next to the silversmiths, out of sight of the bow windows with their gleaming woodwork and sparkling glass. I was contemplating our next move when I heard my name.

"Luce - over here."

I turned around and peered deeper into the narrow shadowy passage. A door had opened in the brick wall and a familiar face emerged.

"Sandy! Er, Sandeep," I amended, starting forward.

He stepped out. "Oh, Sandy's fine. Sorry about mum. She has high hopes for me - just starting university and all that. Doesn't want me to get distracted. Keeps a pretty close watch on me." Despite this dismal report, he was smiling, as usual.

"University! Where? What in?" I was impressed.

"Maths - I've gotten a scholarship at Imperial College." Sandy rolled his eyes self-mockingly but I could tell he was proud.

"Wow, that's excellent," I exclaimed. "Well done!"

"Yeah, thanks, so...mum's quite concerned that I focus on my studies instead of, well, uh... instead of anything else," he stammered slightly. "A bit overprotective - you know how they are."

I didn't, really, but I thought I understood.

"So I heard that you were looking for a place to buy pajamas?" he continued. "Whatever for?

George, who was still standing behind me, spoke up for the first time. "Oh ho - looks like someone was eavesdropping on our conversation."

Sandy addressed me. "I was in back, where I usually am - unless there's a customer I particularly want to see. And the pajamas?"

"A gift - they're a gift. We thought you might know where to we ought to look. We wanted something elegant and...un - uncommon." Now it was my turn to stammer.

"Nice of you to think of me, then," he said easily, still smiling.

I was considering my reply when George spoke up again. "Lucy, given that we are supposed to be on a rather urgent errand for Lockwood, our employer..."

Sandy didn't let him finish. Giving George an appraising glance, he chuckled. "Right. Nose to the grindstone, eh? We all have to get a leg up somehow, don't we?" He paused and held out his hand. "Sandeep Patel. Pleasure to meet you, as well. Perhaps you might bring yourself to address me directly, then?"

As much as I wanted to see George put on the spot, I had to set Sandeep straight. "Sandy, this is George - George Cubbins - and he's just like that. He and I also found each other mutually irksome the first time we met. George is really much better reading about Visitors than actually visiting with the living," I continued, hoping to be amusing and failing miserably. "I'm sure George wasn't trying to offend you - he doesn't have to, actually. He naturally gives offense to pretty much everyone without even trying."

"No offense taken, Luce. I'm happy to help you, anyway," Sandy added. "And, just so you know, I think what you do is excellent as well. You must be very brave."

"And punctual," said George, cutting in. "We do need to be on our way," he stated firmly, resting his hand on my shoulder. "No time for faffing about."

Sandeep laughed. "So I see you have one too, Lucy! Doesn't have to be your actual mother, you know, a mate will do. I think the shop you want is Jayne's, over on Wigmore Street, just at the corner with Wimpole Street."

"I've got to get back to work," he continued. "Good luck! Perhaps I'll ring you up sometime and you can tell me about it." He smiled at me as he disappeared through the iron door in the alley.

I smiled back.


	7. Chapter 7

A walk of less than ten minutes brought us to the corner Sandy had mentioned. George and I knew this intersection, as it featured both a chocolatier and a used book store. Neither of us remembered seeing anything boutique-y, but then again neither of us had ever been looking.

George immediately volunteered to step into the sweet shop to get directions, but I stopped him and pointed across the street at the imposing five-storey brick and stone pile that featured arcades along both visible facades.

"Let's try there, George, looks like a signpost with notices for all the stores," I said, pointing to a tall dark wood structure featuring plaques with gilded edges and Gothic script.

Jayne's-Clothier, read one painted shingle, #41 Wimpole Street.

We reached the end of the arcade before we found it. Half the width of an arcade bay, the narrow wood-paneled front was sparingly carved with classical motifs and featured a large leaded-glass window and a door fashioned entirely of brass. Not a single smudge or handprint showed on the shiny surface.

"Good lord, hate to be the dogsbody that has to keep that polished," observed George.

A panel next to the door was inset with a rectangular silver nameplate: Jayne & Soarez, Gentlemen's Furnishings Since 1824. No display window, no hours posted, no telephone number.

Suddenly I was acutely aware of the hole in my leggings, just above my right knee. A wave of memory washed over me and I felt as though I was again standing outside 35 Portland Row that first day, one final bad interview away from an iron staff and the night-watch. A tousled nobody.

And then a deeper memory surfaced: seeing my reflection in the window of Flinders & Hugh in Hexham when I was a bairn, as my Ganny would have said, just after my father died.

I had been transfixed by the pretty things, silver warding jewelry and cut crystal vases and, I remembered particularly, a filigreed picture frame encircled with little jewels and seed pearls and enameled pink roses. Sparkling, lovely, delicate.

I was looking at it longingly when I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass.

I saw my thick eyebrows and big nose, my chapped lips. My face was shiny from the drippings on the bread Mam had packed in a tin for our dinner. My hair had escaped from the braid on the left side and was frizzed out around my ear; there was a hole in my hand-me-down knit muffler. I knew, with the certainty of a child, that the image of me did not belong anywhere near the precious filigreed frame.

At exactly that moment the shopkeeper, a severe old woman in black, had opened the door and shaken her broom at me, saying "Be off or it'll be into the dustbin with you!"

Even after I earned my Third Grade and brought in a bigger paycheck, I had never dared to purchase anything at Flinders & Hugh. Girls like me - fatherless daughters of a washerwoman - weren't welcome at places like that. And certainly not at discrete establishments that sold bespoke clothes in a tony London palazzo.

And yet here I was.

I gripped my rapier handle and imagined a Raw Bones waiting behind the door. I could do this. Remember the first rule: Never hesitate at the threshold.

"Come on, George, it's not getting any earlier," I said, grasping the handle. I opened the door and followed him in.

Before I had even entered the shop I noticed the smell. Or rather the smells: in a world that reeked of lavender, Jayne's was redolent of leather, bitter orange, smoke and pine needles. The aroma was insistent and pervasive, exotic - and oddly familiar. Somehow it made me feel calmer.

Once properly inside I took stock of my surroundings. The store was well-lit by a dozen or so ornate brass fixtures with frosted glass shades but it was not overly bright; it was a soft, friendly light. Glass-fronted display cases, drawers and cubbies stocked with merchandise ran from floor to ceiling and filled every conceivable surface; it was as though the walls were made from silk socks and cravats and tartan swatches. The carpet underfoot was claret-red and felt softer than my bed.

Suddenly, from behind a counter featuring dozens of different colors of handkerchief, a figure loomed up. Painfully thin, almost skeletal, but smiling broadly (his smile actually reached his eyes, unlike those of many adults and most clerks I had encountered), he seemed sincerely pleased to see us.

"Sir, Miss. Delighted to be of service. How may we help you?" He steepled his long fingers together under his chin and leaned encouragingly in our direction.

I thought I'd better take charge given the hash George had made of our last stop.

"Thank you, sir. We're here to purchase some young men's pajamas, but we need them this evening," I ventured. "Your shop came highly recommended."

"Excellent, miss." The clerk knit his fingers together and bowed slightly. He gestured toward George. "Pajamas for the...gentleman here. I may have something off-the-shelf that would suit."

"Not for this gentleman - another gentleman," I corrected. "He's taller than George here, and much slimmer. Longer arms and legs...but not gangly. We're looking for summer pajamas, something elegant; he's outgrown his current pair."

"Of course, miss. This is a purchase for your young man, then?"

"Not my young man," I answered, blushing again. "He's my employer."

"Certainly miss, I understand," he said quickly. "Not an unusual situation at all, miss."

Before I could protest I heard an odd little noise off to my right and noticed that George was sniggering. He stepped past me, hand on the hilt of his rapier, and addressed the clerk.

"I do apologize for the confusion," he began. "I'm afraid that Lucy has neglected to mention a critical piece of information - she and I are psychic investigators..."

"I'm sure that's none of my business, sir, whatever investigating or exploring you may choose to do," grinned the old man. "When I was your age we had some clever terms for it as well - psychic, physical, whatnot."

Now I was sniggering - or perhaps giggling. Definitely my day for it. George made one last stab at an explanation: "The pajamas are for our employer, Anthony Lockwood, of Lockwood & Co. The Bickerstaff Affair? Kensal Green?"

Now he had the clerk's attention; his smile grew even broader.

"Young Mr. Lockwood! Of course I must have missed the name when you mentioned it earlier. Let me check the book and see if his usual is on hand, in a longer leg and arm." He disappeared behind the counter and popped up a moment later with a large red leather ledger, which appeared as weathered as he was. He flipped quickly through the pages, found his place, and muttered a few numbers to himself as he crossed the shop in two long strides. Opening a drawer, he removed several tissue-wrapped items and laid them on the counter.

"Mr. Lockwood prefers the five button top and the drawstring, as you can see here. We have just one pair in his fabric and new size: the solid charcoal. Unfortunately given the hour we haven't time for the monogram today but you could return them at a later date for that service." He had folded back the tissue for us to inspect the pajamas, as he laid a sheet of heavy paper on the counter, ready to wrap them up upon our approval.

"Monogram?" I asked, curious. "I don't think I've ever noticed a monogram on his pajamas."

"Oh dear, Miss, I should hope not," he replied. "Our monograms are inside the waistband at the back of the garment. Very difficult to see when the garment is being worn."

I nodded silently. No more talking for me. We needed to buy these pajamas and leave before any further assumptions were made or explanations required.

George was holding his billfold and I my purse. "How much will those be, sir?" asked George, slightly hesitantly. He had pulled out twenty quid, and I had done the same.

The clerk peered at us and then down at the package he was preparing. Handing it to George, he said briskly "Forty pounds it is, sir, right on the dot." He made a quick note in his ledger and then stalked out from behind the counter once more, showing us to the door.

"Thank you, and please do wish Mr. Lockwood a most happy birthday from me as well. I'm Mr. Jayne, and his family has traded here since we opened up shop." Ushering us out into the fading light, he bowed again.

"Birthday?" said George and I, at the same time.

"Why naturally! I had thought the gift was for that occasion," he replied. "Tomorrow is Mr. Anthony Lockwood's birthday."


	8. Chapter 8

Perhaps because the safe passing of another year is not an unalloyed pleasure for an agent - moving us, as it inevitably does, one year closer to the loss of our Talent and most likely our livelihood - or perhaps because traditional celebrations reminded us of absent family members, or perhaps because we were too disorganized to remember and too harried to care, we weren't in the habit of marking birthdays at 35 Portland Row.

Night was falling as we left Jayne's, polite thank-yous all around. George and I needed to hurry, not because we worried about being caught out in the dark - we had brought our rapiers, after all - but because we needed to add a few extra touches if we were going to have a birthday party. Cards...cake...a birthday boy.

On the way to the bakery George and I had a row about what kind of cake we ought to buy; spending an entire day with him had whittled my temper down to a fine point. His contention that we ought to get something we liked in case Lockwood didn't show up was hard to argue with, but that didn't stop me from wanting to pummel him.

A few minutes later, one chocolate fudge cake in hand-chocolate fudge was the only kind of cake as far as George was concerned-we turned the corner just as the ghost lamp on our street hummed to life. As we started toward our pillared porch, the cool glow of the lamp's white beam throwing our green shutters into sharp relief and picking out the season's last pink geraniums, the light above our front door came on.

Lockwood was home.

Good agents control their emotions to prevent Apparitions from feeding on them, from growing powerful on a rich diet of human fear. Great agents control their emotions because nothing about a job should be left to last-minute whims or influenced by stray thoughts and feelings; great agents, the most celebrated agents - long-lived agents - worked by the book. They followed the processes and procedures established decades ago, proven sound by generations of psychic Talents. And great agents maintained a rigorous mental discipline, always. It was second nature.

I was never going to be a great agent.

I burst through the door, yelling: "Lockwood! We have a surprise for you!"

George headed straight for the kitchen, muttering something about it's not being a surprise anymore and getting started with the cooking. Or perhaps he just wanted to be alone with the cake.

I stowed the pajamas on the hall table and ran upstairs to Lockwood's door, which was uncharacteristically ajar, as was George's. No lights on; no sign of him. The basement, then.

As I returned to the kitchen George nodded at the door leading downstairs. Although it was shut, I could hear music welling up behind it; more specifically, the duet between Papageno and Papagena from The Magic Flute. Lockwood was home, and he was downstairs sparring, and he was in a very good mood. Mozart's comic operas only appeared when Lockwood was in particularly high spirits.

I raised my eyebrows at George and shot him a quizzical look. He grimaced in return, shaking his head, and grumbled, "Told you it was nothing, and now your foolishness has cost us 40 quid. At least I'm going to get some fudge cake out of it." I stuck out my tongue at him and headed down the twisting staircase.

Now the music was louder, but less clear, muddled by a faint drowsy buzzing that I couldn't place.

And there was Lockwood, in his shirtsleeves, his back to me, a rapier in one hand and a slim but sturdy silver chain in the other. I had never seen him fight that way - although we often hefted iron chains offensively as well as employing them for our defensive lines, using a silver chain as a weapon was new to me. Given the expense, I'd expect it would be above the touch of most agents, as well as a bit cumbersome to deploy effectively.

Lockwood made it look easy.

He flicked his sword arm up and forward, leaning in, seemingly overbalanced by the force of his thrust. Fluidly, the lunge became a pivot, as he whipped the chain up and across his body, then jerked it down almost instantaneously. A Visitor would have been ripped apart; a mortal sword snared and jarred from its owner's grip. As always, watching Lockwood fight inspired in me a curious mixture of emotions - fierce pride in our team, underlaid with a subtle aching emptiness. I suppose it was the knowledge that I would never be that good with a rapier.

"Oh Lucy, where have you been? You're missing the show - and so much else, obviously."

A familiar voice was whispering in my ear. The skull had kept silent earlier when George and were sparring but his mocking tones were hard to ignore now.

"Still resisting that instinct to go down on bended knee," the voice continued, "and tongue-tied to boot. Let me help - just clear your throat discretely and then say, 'Master...'"

"Shut up, won't you!" Although the skull had saved my life at least once, it was easily the most irritating occupant of 35 Portland Row - and with George Cubbins mooning about, that was saying quite a bit.

Lockwood whirled, rapier leveled. "Nice to see you too, Luce! I can only assume that command wasn't directed at me," he said, reaching over to turn off the music. It's a good thing Lockwood was facing away from the skull's jar: even with the silver glass barrier, Lockwood's smile was so bright it would have seared ectoplasm like a hot skillet.

I'd hoped the annoying albeit barely perceptible buzz would disappear along with the opera (or should I say the shrill bickering of a courting couple ecstatically disagreeing with each other - Lockwood had shown me the libretto once and I just didn't get it, but to each his own), however the tuneless, raspy hum persisted, just at the threshold of my hearing.

"The skull again?" Lockwood inquired. He could sense the ghost's communications but could never catch the words. Lucky him. "I'm so glad you're back," he said, stepping closer to me. "I have something to show you and I need your help. I've been conducting a little test - of my new rapier; isn't it lovely?"

I had to agree, although it was unlike any other I had seen. Black chased with silver, not elaborate but beautifully made. The hilt was thicker than I would have found comfortable, but Lockwood's hands were larger than mine. And on the pommel, a silver plate with his initials, AJL.

"Nicely balanced, too, for my purposes" he continued. "I was told that it has - inhibitory properties - that the metal alloys are such that Visitors are actually repelled by its presence. Could prevent Ghost-touch completely."

"Inhibitory properties? Bad news for you, Lucy, if that were true," cackled the skull. "But you shouldn't believe everything you hear."

Trying to ignore the skull, I concentrated on the rapier. "Where did you get it? And what kind of tests?"

"It was a gift, actually, and I was hoping the skull would react in some way," he replied. "But nothing noticeable - noticeable to me, at any rate. That's where you can help. What's the skull saying to you? Is it about me?"

"Trust is the foundation of all..." began the skull.

"No, nothing important," I said hurriedly. "Just insults, as usual."

"Yes, do tell him he's turning into his chubby little colleague with all the experiments. And he won't like what he finds!" hissed the skull.

"The skull just compared you to George and prophesied a bad end to all this," I reported promptly.

"That is frightening - not the prophesy, but being compared to George," Lockwood responded with a mock scowl, sheathing the rapier and dusting his hands. "Best close up shop for the night."

"And speaking of George - he's upstairs making dinner. Lamb chops!" Pajamas as a birthday gift didn't seem terribly exciting in light of the rapier Lockwood had been brandishing, but for once George was right: at least we'd get chocolate fudge cake.

Lockwood grabbed his coat and headed for the stairs; I followed him.

The skull's whisper sounded in my ear: "Pay heed! What was fixed is fluid."

I shut off the lights.


	9. Chapter 9

The kitchen smelled wonderful - its own bright, warm, fragrant little world. While George finished up the chops and braised the peas, I tidied up and set the table.

Picking up the paperback I had abandoned after breakfast, I glanced idly at the cover. It was a country house mystery set in Kent but the novel described an England I only dimly recognized. Decades before the Problem, the characters were accustomed to lazy summer evenings on the lawns and in the gardens, clandestine meetings at midnight on the manor grounds. Impossible to imagine adults behaving so today.

Our England was hemmed in by the Problem, children continually sacrificed to the Night Watch and the iron tombs, even our technology held back by interference from the scourge of Visitors.

I wondered if the world had seemed bigger to them, then - the future a promise and not a threat.

Of course eighty years ago I would almost certainly have been polishing banisters and scrubbing floors. As I'd rather take my chances with a dozen Type Twos every night than be anyone's servant, today suited me just fine.

I unboxed the cake and set it on the table along with our package, signing the card and forging George's scrawl, as he was somehow still covered in butter and garlic and flecks of mint.

Just as I finished laying the paper serviettes printed with cakes and balloons and emblazoned with "Happy Birthday," Lockwood appeared. He had stowed his rapier, freshened up, put on a pressed shirt and brushed - combed? - fixed - his hair.

He could have stepped out of the pages of my book, and not from below stairs.

"Ay, guv'nor, ooze birfday?" he asked, affecting the worst Cockney accent I had ever heard.

"Oh my poor ears! No wonder you nearly got yourself killed going door-to-door in Combe Carey, and the Winkmans sussed you out right away," scoffed George, struggling awkwardly out of his apron. "Face it, Lockwood: you are what you are - no use pretending to be anything else."

"And you can do better, I suppose?" riposted Lockwood, returning to his normal tones. "I'd like to hear you try!"

"I can't, and you never will. Unlike some people living in this house, I think I know my limits," George replied.

"Limits are for losers," observed Lockwood brightly, seating himself. "Limits are for other agencies."

George rolled his eyes, hitched up his pants and took his seat, pulling up to the table. "Limits prevent curiosity from turning into obsession. Limits stop brilliant young researchers from turning into sociopathic archivists. Limits make us who we are." He pushed his glasses up on his nose and his glance met mine: "Rocket ships and all."

He speared a great number of peas, and fell to eating. We all did, and silence reigned, punctuated by requests for seconds...and also, for me, by the merest whisper of a buzz, the barest trace of vibration inside the bones of my ears. Suddenly I felt the absence of the skull, and not just because the conversation had lagged - I needed someone else to confirm the teasing presence of that almost-noise. And, as a bonus, to take a few potshots at my companions, especially the suddenly sanctimonious George Cubbins.

Whatever else he might be, George was a good cook. And Lockwood was oddly expansive that night.

"George, you've outdone yourself," Lockwood's smile was relaxed and open. I warmed, although the praise wasn't directed at me. "Mother Cubbins must be so proud."

"Not a bit of it. My mother doesn't cook. Works a lot of extra hours at a textile factory in Merton, always rushing home just before curfew and rooting around for frozen packets and tins," George replied, pushing his plate away.

"Where did you learn to cook, then?" I asked.

"From my uncles. My mum's a bookkeeper but her three brothers own a farm near Swindon," answered George. "Used to be sent there for holiday each summer. A little like heaven. Good food, no rules, all the chores already taken."

"Lucky you - lucky us," returned Lockwood, once again including me in his mellow grin.

I surprised myself by chipping in. "Someone could have hidden a cure for Ghost Touch in our kitchen and Mam would never have found it. She could barely bring herself to boil water for tea." I paused. Talking about my childhood was a little like opening a rusty tap - it stuck at first, but then the memories flowed more easily.

"After my father died the station master used to send us the trolley leftovers, tongue or salmon on buttered rolls and gristly little meat pies," I continued. "I think that kept us from starving until I went to work and a few of my older sisters moved out or married off."

"Pretty rough, was it? Your dad a railroad man?" That from Lockwood, who had always avoided any discussions of family, his or anyone else's. Perhaps showing us Jessica's room had loosened him up.

"Just a porter - he died when I was five. Mam did laundry for the hotels in town. I was earning more than she was by the time I was eleven, and I swore I'd never clean up after someone else for a living. If you could call what Mam does living. Just sits in front of the television she bought with my paycheck..." I trailed off, aware that both Lockwood and George were staring at me. "I suppose I should be more grateful, I know," I finished lamely.

"Not at all," put in George. "I was just wondering if that's why you hate doing laundry so much, and why you never seem to enjoy my salmon sandwiches."

Lockwood seemed to take my self-reproach more seriously. "What good would gratitude do your mother, or you? You send a good bit of your pay home - I've seen you put it in the post. What did she ever do to deserve your affection, or earn your loyalty?" He paused for effect, but apparently it was a question and not a rhetorical device. "Well?" he pressed, waiting for an answer.

"My affect...my affection?" I stammered. Discussing this with Lockwood made feel faintly queasy, like the onset of miasma.

"Nothing, that's what I'd say." He pushed his chair back from the table and took his plate to the sink. "We don't owe them anything," he said, turning back to me.

He met my eyes. "We're on our own, and that's the way we like it, isn't it, Lucy?"

His smile lit up the room.


	10. Chapter 10

What did tie us together, me and George and Lockwood? Was it just our skills and our daring and how much we'd accomplished for such a small and unorthodox agency? For all of our little stumbles, burning down houses and killing clients, I didn't think we were better than Kipps and his Fittes team - I knew it in my bones. I'd just as soon give up being an agent as wear a maroon or mustard blazer.

That first real night together, sitting in the lamplit library after after handling our initial case as a team, Lockwood told me that we'd be one of the best agencies in London. And I'd believed him. Within just a few hours of meeting him, I'd shared his dream.

Now that I was beginning to understand my own Talent, and learn how to motivate the perpetually snarky but potentially invaluable skull, I was even more certain that we had a chance to do things no other agency could.

We were far from perfect, of course. George was a klutz and had all the personal appeal of rancid milk, except that on most days rancid milk smelled better. He was insensitive, often inert, and stubborn. And he made terrible jokes when he was nervous. I also had my flaws, I knew: a quick temper; a propensity to act, occasionally, without completely considering all possible ramifications; perhaps a tendency to keep my own counsel at times. While Lockwood...

Lockwood. If I were truly honest with myself, how much of my loyalty to the agency was due to our accomplishments and potential - and how much was due to Lockwood's leadership? His unflappable charm, his radiant smiles, his boundless self-confidence...the agency could never have survived had any other agent been at the helm. He evaded DEPRAC and wooed clients with equal aplomb. His literal and figurative sure-footnedness was the reason that I - well, we - George and I - were so fiercely devoted to Lockwood & Co.

That was loyalty, then. What about affection?

I had been standing at the sink, mechanically doing dishes while considering the question Lockwood posed. Suddenly I realized he was standing beside me. It was the wood smoke that I noticed - wood smoke and leather and pine and oranges, the fragrance from Jayne's shop. Of course that explained its familiarity: it was the way Lockwood smelled.

Funny how something can be quite quite literally under your nose and still you overlook it.

"You seem pretty far away, Luce. Thinking about home?" His voice was quiet.

"Home?" I was puzzled, briefly. "Oh, you mean childhood. No. No, I agree with you, the past is done. What matters is what we can do now." I dried off the last plate; Lockwood took it from me and stowed it in the cupboard. "I was just wondering...something you said..." My voice trailed off.

"I know. You were thinking about us, what we can do together." He was smiling, his eyes sparkling. "You were thinking about the future of Lockwood & Co."

"Oh...right. Uh no, actually. I was just wondering...something you said last night. Who is Angelica Holt?"

"Angelica Holt? Of course, indeed, last night's case. Frankly, I have no earthly idea. Saw her name on all that artwork and figured the client was pretty proud of her, at least." He picked a knife from the chopping block and turned back to the table, where George was sketching (lazily) but actively, hungrily eyeing the cake.

"Back off, George. It's time to get my party underway!" Turning to me he said, "Most adults aren't very realistic, you know. They're happier that way. Not like us - we have to have our eyes open, see the world as it is. Clients - grown-ups - we have to treat them with kid gloves, sometimes."

"Don't look so shocked Lucy," scoffed George. "Feet of clay and all that. I figured out a long time ago that Lockwood makes up half of what he says."

Lockwood brandished the knife like a rapier. "Knave! Varlet! You dare impugn my honor! No cake for you!"

We all laughed.


End file.
